


Seas Between Us Braid Hae Roar’d

by Camelittle



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Friends to Lovers, Intercrural Sex, M/M, New Year's Eve, Old Friends, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-24
Updated: 2014-11-24
Packaged: 2018-02-26 21:15:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,524
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2666594
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Camelittle/pseuds/Camelittle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Arthur and Morgana host a memorable Hogmanay party at their Edinburgh flat. But at the end of it all, how come the only place left for Arthur and Merlin to sleep is the tiny, cluttered boxroom? Soon the two men find that being forced into such close proximity has its compensations. </p><p>Written for the November theme at Merlin Writers: Forced Proximity</p>
            </blockquote>





	Seas Between Us Braid Hae Roar’d

**Author's Note:**

> This was meant to be a PWP but plot kept sneaking in there, for which I apologise.

_We twa hae paidl'd i' the burn,_

_Frae mornin' sun till dine;_

_But seas between us braid hae roar'd_

_Sin auld lang syne._

~Robert Burns

 

*

 

There were a million and one things for Arthur and Morgana to do in their high-ceilinged Marchmont flat before they could consider letting their friends in for Hogmanay. For starters, Morgana had made him learn all the words to “Auld Lang Syne”, so they could sing them, in proper Scots dialect, at midnight.

And then there was the fact that the number of friends they were expecting didn’t quite match the number of available rooms, so there were sleeping bags and bedrolls to find, and furniture to stow in the box room. Although Morgana helped, largely by issuing directions, Arthur ended up doing the bulk of the work. So if, at the end of that, Arthur smelt rank, his hair slick with sweat, so that he had to be banished to the shower, well, that was probably Morgana’s fault. Most things usually were.

A few days later, Arthur, realising this, would thank her for everything, and she would wonder what the hell he was going on about.

It was definitely her fault that she couldn’t possibly answer the door, because she was in the throes of some intricate make-up related task, which meant that Arthur had to pad out of the shower, dripping sodden footprints onto the wooden floorboards, with only a towel round his waist. When he flung it open into the dimly lit stairwell, the expression on Merlin’s face was like that of a startled, high-cheekboned rabbit. Or at least it was until he replaced it with something a whole lot more appraising and predatory, and how come that thought made Arthur’s heart skip and his cheeks feel hot?

This was Merlin, right? They’d been friends forever, the very epitome of whatever it was that blooming Robbie Burns had been going on about in that poem of his. Arthur had photographic evidence that they’d paddled in the burn, for example, if by paddled Burns meant Arthur pushing Merlin in, and if by burn he meant the Atlantic on holiday in Cornwall with his Dad and Merlin’s Mum.

“Arthur,” Merlin said. “Great to see you. You look… healthy. I see Scotland has hardened you up a bit, if you’re going out on Hogmanay in only a towel! ”

“Merlin. Looking well.” As Arthur coughed to cover his slight confusion, a subconscious part of him registered that Merlin had filled out. Although his frame would never be stocky, and there was still a lithe grace and feyness to his bone structure, even the baggy clothes draped over him couldn’t hide the hint of a newly developed, confident musculature. “Come in, before I freeze to death. Apparently Morgana’s hair or toenail varnish or something is more important than my wellbeing.”

“I heard that!” sounded a distant voice, over the hum of a hairdryer.

Both men laughed.

“Here!” Merlin brandished a bottle of Highland Park as he stepped over the threshold, looking around himself, wide-eyed, the heavy door banging closed behind him. “I bankrupted myself and brought you this.”  

“A 16-year old Orkney single malt? I see your tastes have improved.” Arthur grinned, accepting the bottle. “Thank you!”

“So has your dress sense.” Approving eyes flicked down to the towel and meandered back up to Arthur’s face, taking their time about it. “Thank _you_!”

“Ha bloody ha. This booty cannot be bought for mere whisky, single malt or no.” Turning his back, Arthur beckoned Merlin into the flat.

“No? Any tips on what it might take?” Merlin said. “Towel couture suits you. You should wear it more often.”

“You’re just hoping it’s going to fall off, you bloody pervert.”

“Well, now that you say it…”

A warmth spread through Arthur’s chest. He’d met some great people in Scotland, but there was just something about Merlin, something joyful and playful, a charming ease that filled him with delight. Plus there was that new air about Merlin. He seemed to have found himself, somehow. He had been beautiful before, Arthur had always found him beautiful, but there was something bold about his features now, a warm cast to his eyes that was mesmerising, he found it hard to look away. 

Merlin had only just arrived, but he’d be gone in a few days. Arthur was missing him already.

“Come in,” he said, with a sigh, melancholy all of a sudden even as he turned to beckon again. “I’ll show you around the flat. You’ve got the box-room, I’m afraid. Hope that’s okay. We’ve got a bit of a flat-full, tonight.”

“I’ll do anything you ask me to, Arthur, as long as you don’t try to get me to eat haggis. A man’s got to draw the line somewhere.”

“You can’t say that! And actually, deep-fried haggis is--”

“Just, God, no.”

Despite himself, Arthur felt his lips twitch and then twist up in a lop-sided grin. A sunburst of irresistible affection surged through him, and he batted Merlin’s upper arm, swiftly. “God, I’ve missed you, you veggie, namby-pamby, shandy-drinking pouf.”

Merlin flashed him an answering beam, all radiant, crinkle-eyed joy. “I missed you too, you uptight, repressed upper-class prick.”

Their hug was awkward, of course, as British male hugs tend to be, but none the less welcome for it.

 

*

 

Merlin was bone tired. He’d been weary even before the four-hour journey on the train, from too many long days and longer nights on the wards. Now, after the excitement of being reunited with Arthur and Morgana, and Gwen and Lance, and Gwaine, and all the others, and after all the whisky, and the chatter, and the drinking, and the fireworks, his limbs were heavy and his eyes stinging with the effort of keeping them open. Plus the couples were beginning to pair off and wend their way home. Gwen and Lance had gone suspiciously quiet, burrowed under Arthur’s covers. It was time for him to snuggle into the nest he’d managed to make room for in a corner of the densely-packed box-room, amid the stacked chairs and mouldy camping gear.

Yawning, he took his leave and stumbled through the door, shucking off everything but his underpants, and falling on top of his sleeping bag with a contented groan. He pulled the duvet Arthur had lent him over his exposed torso and gave way to slumber.

He barely registered with a flick of his eyelids when, ten minutes later, the door was wrenched open, light flooding in. But he couldn’t really ignore the warm body that wormed its way alongside him, crowding him against the wall.

“Hey!” he protested, sleepily.

“Sorry, Merlin,” was Arthur’s reply. “Gwen and Lance have commandeered my bed, and seem to be working their way through the Karma Sutra. I can’t sleep in there with all those slurping noises going on. Morgana’s locked her door. Gwaine’s sleeping in the bath. Percival, Elyan and Leon are taking up every inch of space in the hall. There’s some random Australian asleep in the kitchen, and anyway I happen to know we have mice in there. So this is it, mate, budge up and let me join you.

He wanted to say it was okay, he loved the warmth of Arthur’s back butting up against his, but he was too tired to raise more than a sleepy “S’kay! G’nigh’.” before he drifted off again, in a haze of single malt Scotch and _auld lang syne_.  

 

*

 

When he came to, he was lying on his side facing the wall, and the first thing he was aware of was an overwhelming sensation of heat and compression, enveloping him, wrapped over him and round him and cramming him from three sides like a cocoon. His awareness expanded to encompass puffs of breath gusting against his bare shoulder. Arthur had turned in the night and wrapped thick, bear-like limbs around him. He was effectively pinioned, one arm circling his shoulder, a heavy thigh draped over his hip.

The arm and leg he was lying on were uncomfortable from spending too long in the same position. With a minute wriggle, he remedied the matter, letting out a faint, relieved sigh, Arthur giving way an inch or two to accommodate his new pose.

And that was when he felt it.

It was only to be expected at that time in the morning, he supposed. After all, his own cock was always fat and ready first thing. There was no reason to think that Arthur’s would be any different. But in fact, from the feel of it, this wasn’t just an everyday morning chubby. Pressed tight against Merlin’s buttock, it felt solid and weighty. It felt like a purposeful penis.  

Merlin shifted his weight again, gently, and shivered, despite the overwhelming heat, when he felt its insistent line insinuate itself between his cheeks, even through both pairs of underpants, and settle there, as if it was where it belonged.

Arthur’s breathing shortened, then, sharpening in focus, as if he was just becoming aware of where he was, of how they were pressed hard up against one another like lovers, and Merlin braced himself to lose the contact.

But Arthur didn’t pull away.

Instead, with a sudden thrill, Merlin felt lips nuzzle at his neck, and up towards the delicate strip of skin under his ear. The shock of warmth then cold, Arthur’s tongue against his neck, sent a jolt of energy fizzing down his spine.

“This okay?” Arthur breathed, barely audible.

“Yeah.” Merlin sounded hoarse, even to his own ears. All that singing, no doubt, on the stroke of midnight and beyond, had taken its toll. To emphasise his consent, he brought one hand behind his back, just managing to reach Arthur’s straining arse and give it a squeeze. “More than.”

“Hush.” It’s barely a whisper.

Arthur’s free hand, the one that wasn’t wedged beneath him, clamped over his mouth in warning. Straining his ears, Merlin realised he could hear Morgana’s gentle snores from the next room, filtered through a tiny, wedged-open window at the top of the wall he was currently jammed up against. They’d have to be incredibly quiet if they were not to wake her.

A sudden thought came to him. Grinning into Arthur’s hand, he parted his lips, and licked at Arthur’s sweat-salty palm, still pushed hard up against his mouth, so close that he could smell sweat and whiskey and stale soap on Arthur’s fingers. When Arthur lifted it only slightly away, Merlin lapped at it until it was slick, all the while rocking his hips, pushing his arse back against Arthur’s rampant cock.

Arthur, breath quickening, hitched himself up onto one elbow, and matched Merlin’s rhythm with eager thrusts of his own. A wet tongue swirling into the shell of Merlin’s ear made him shudder.

“Tease,” said Arthur, the syllable gusting cold against his sensitive skin there.

“Tease yourself,” Merlin whispered back. And Jesus, God, this was just too much. He had prepared himself mentally for what he hoped was coming, but he was wound up as tight as a drum. When, at last, Arthur’s free hand snaked between the elastic of his pants and the bare flesh of his belly, and thick fingers wrapped themselves around him, the sensation of wet pressure on his dick, coupled with the firm nudge of Arthur’s against his still-clad arse, made him groan out loud.

“Hush.” The fine sharpness of Arthur’s teeth, nibbling on his earlobe, sent bright bursts of electricity shooting into his cock. Arthur laughed then, a growling chuckle that echoed soft and low through Merlin’s rib cage.

Merlin released his upper hand from its tight grip on Arthur’s arse and tugged ineffectually at Arthur’s pants with it. The angle was all wrong, and he could barely move, his arm flailing about the tiny space they’d been granted between the wall and a bunch of stacked chairs.

Feeling suddenly bereft when Arthur’s hand and the glorious insistent heat of his crotch momentarily pulled away, barely an inch, while Arthur rolled down his boxer shorts, Merlin barely had time to shuck his own briefs down as far as his knees, one handed, before there was a brief flutter of soft lips on his shoulder. He smiled when the warmth returned as Arthur lined up along his back again, this time fully naked.

The blunt tip of Arthur’s rampant cock nudged at the dry crevice between his thighs, and Merlin allowed it to ease through, grazing the base of his balls, before emerging, moist and triumphant. Slowly it advanced and retreated, a gentle adagio, head peeping out at the end of each forward stroke, Arthur’s hand echoing this dance with slow swoops along Merlin’s aching cock, sweet and smooth.

There was no way he could last like this, not with the deep need borne of years of frustrated yearning, rising and seeking release in the rough skin of Arthur’s clumsy fingers.

As he felt his climax build, a rising tension in his hypersensitised cock and in the squeeze of Arthur’s hand on his balls, Merlin turned his head, hiding his face in the duvet, because he’d never mastered the art of stifling his gasps when he came. He was unable to completely muffle his long groan now, not with sharp, sweet surges of pleasure shooting through his cock, painting messy streaks on the duvet, on Arthur’s hand, on his own exposed thighs. He felt Arthur’s breath roughen in answer, through the aftershocks that wracked him, Arthur’s hand seeking the wet stickiness and smearing it between his thighs to ease his way, and bringing it back up to Merlin’s face for him to lap at.

Sensing the way Arthur’s rhythm stuttered and faltered as he advanced and retreated, Merlin sucked first one finger and then two into his mouth. Arthur was barely bothering to conceal his rapid gasps, fucking into the too-dry gap between Merlin’s thighs, rubbing and chafing faster now and more frantic, before burying his face into Merlin’s sweaty back with a bitten-off moan.

Managing to summon up the energy from somewhere to drag his pants down past his ankles and kick them up towards his waiting hand, Merlin mopped at the cooling mess in a desultory way for a moment or too, with limited success. He gave up and grabbed Arthur’s arm instead, wrapping it round himself with a contented sigh, wondering why through all those years of friendship, of people teasing them about being almost married, they’d never got round to doing this before.

“Tonight,” said Arthur, after a while, in a lazy undertone, “Gwen and Lance are sleeping in the bloody boxroom so I can have my wicked way with you in comfort. _For auld lang syne_ , you understand.”

“Suits me!” said Merlin, burrowing back with a yawn. “ _For auld lang syne_ it is.”

There was a sudden loud bang on the thin stud wall between the boxroom and Morgana’s bedroom.

“Too much information, little brother!” came a muffled voice.

 

_*_

 

_And there's a hand, my trusty fiere!_

_And gie's a hand o' thine!_

_And we'll tak a right guid willy waught,_

_For auld lang syne._

 

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: These are not my characters. I am merely playing with them. I'm not getting paid, and I promise to put them back when I've finished with them.


End file.
